


Admission

by nightram



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Ace!Hawke, Asexual!Hawke, Asexuality, F/M, Love Confessions, Questioning Beliefs, Reimagined scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2382767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hawke watches the broken mage before her. Often she sees glimpses of who he was before he offered himself as a moral vessel for the spirit he once called friend. There was much laughter in his memories that surfaced between glances, a humour that shielded the hurt and fear and searing pain that ate at his soul. It hid the little boy once dragged from his mother’s skirts. Her brows knit together when he finds the strength to look at her once more.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“But I’m... still a man, Hawke,” comes the weathered confession as carefully laid bricks of fortification and refusal begin to waver. “You can’t tease me like this...” He swallows the thickness in his throat, the swell forming, choking him of his thoughts and his speech. “I can’t resist forever.”</i></p><p>A re-imagining of the confession after <i>Questioning Beliefs</i>. Dialogue is relatively untouched from the cutscene. Please note the Hawke in this story is asexual, therefore there will be no sexual intimacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Carrying her spluttering torch, Hawke made her way through the musty cellar that wove knots beneath the foundations of her Hightown estate. The scuff of toughened boots echoed with the scampering of mice and what have you. It never ceased to surprise her, just how little light shone in through the tiny windows of her buried storerooms.

Upon discovering that the farthest corner of the mansion’s basement was a secluded and well forgotten doorway serving as a portal between her comfortable home and dangerous Darktown, Hawke made sure to utilise it. No more would she need to hold her breath and hope the local gangs wouldn’t notice her in all her armed glory. The traditional warrior getup never was the epitome of subtlety. For once she could venture into the perilous district in something that was actually comfortable.

Pulling up the waistband of her trousers, she hooks her torch into the iron claw not far from the dusty door. She grounds her feet and grips her fingers around the lip on one of two barrels that block the entryway. Scratched floorboards moan under the heavy shift of weight, the contents sloshing loudly within the cask as it is bodily moved. Hawke groans as she hauls the second to join it’s partner at the side of the room.

Hawke is greeted by the familiar smell of Darktown when she peeks her head through; damp, rot, and sewerage. She finds herself stifling a throaty cough behind her fist.

Tucking a fallen lock behind her ear, the warrior steps out into the draughty alleyway. Hinges moan behind her before the wood meets the frame with a loud slam. Hawke grasps the familiar hilt of her blade strapped to her waist and makes her way into the open street. She’s concerned to see it devoid of life, but continues forth towards her destination: Anders’ clinic.

Hawke watches the dusty shadows that pass her as she lumbers along the familiar path. Far off conversations echo their way between the bricks and mingle with the calls of scavengers picking through the scattered rubbish heaps. The fine hairs on her neck stand on end.

Thankfully the walk is short, and Hawke counts her blessings once more. The sun is still up, and will be for hours more, but that was never enough of an excuse to keep the coterie thugs at bay.

Surprised, Hawke sees Anders outside his clinic when she rounds the last corner a few feet away. He is knelt over, his back to her, cooing gently to bright golden eyes glistening in the nearby shade. His hand is outstretched and he rubs his fingers together to hold the feline’s attention. Hawke can hear him clicking his tongue.

Careful to not startle the frightened queen, nor the rugged mage tempting her, Hawke skulks over. She is thankful for having not been in her heavy armour. You’d think such a grand cowl of feathers such as Anders’ would tempt a simple alley cat.

Hawke whispers his name as she comes to a stop close by and crouches on the balls of her feet beside him. Her sheath groans against and gouges into the hardened ground. She grips his shoulder for support when she wobbles.

“I’ve seen her lurking around and peering in the windows a few times, but even though I brought out a saucer of milk for her, she’s too scared to come close.” Anders pats the earth in front of him. He had hoped a new tactic would coax the grey tabby closer.

Hawke steadies herself. “I think having a grown man waving his hand at me and making silly sounds would drive me away too,” she giggles behind her hand. “Come on, she’s seen you now. Maybe she’ll try approaching you again another time.” With that she uses Anders’ shoulder to lever herself up and holds a hand out to heave him up in turn.

Disappointment is evident when the mage sighs in defeat once he is back on his feet. Anders holds the door to his clinic open to allow Hawke through, the woman’s arm brushing against his as she passes.

“I miss having a cat around.” The pair wander further into the old clinic and Hawke stops just outside the stockroom. “I think the refugees have scared them all off… or maybe,” Anders’ form goes rigid and his eyes narrow, “eaten them.” Hawke offers a sympathetic quirk of her brows.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Anders continues, his idle pacing coming to a halt before her, however his feathers continue with the momentum. “You don’t need to stick your neck out for the mages here.” The tension in his jaw draws deeper for a brief moment before the muscles loosen and a hint of colour rises in his neck. “But you have.”

Hawke shifts her weight between her feet in silent nerves and drums a calming rhythm on the hilt of her blade. She did not ask for nor expect to be praised when she came to visit her dear friend today. Whether he didn’t realise, or simply ignored the uneasy waver she held, she doesn’t know.

“You let those apostates from Starkhaven start over. Maybe they can be an example for the world,” Anders continues with thoughtful reviere. He was amazed when it happened, and still held in awe when he thought of someone allowing such a thing for an apostate like him. They were mages who had escaped their own ruin, just like any other wishing to live free of the Circle.

Hawke decides it goes without saying that what she decided was for her father, her sister, and the man before her. Having lost Bethany to the Gallows still burned with a deep pain, raw and festering just as harsh the day she was taken away. It cut her to the core to think of her sister locked away, fresh air and daylight becoming a luxury in her new life. But today was a day to be happy, today was another day that Hawke drew breath and had people she cared for and who in turn cared for her. She decides to reply with humour, not wanting to let the bitter memories stain her friends good intentions.

“I always had a thing for scrappy underdogs, I must admit,” Hawke shrugs indignantly, the corners of her mouth pricking upwards. Her mind conjures forth a vivid image of her hound jumping onto her bed with his slobber flying any which way.

It’s when Anders’ pleasant smile falters and the air about him shifts that Hawke’s own face falls. His eyes flee to her side, seeing beyond the material world and sink into the surging depths of his mind. His chest stills momentarily, lungs ceasing all function for but a moment. 

When he draws his next breath, it is calm, controlled. The ever instant words of Justice reach and gripe for influence; it was a nagging sensation. Anders frowns as a headache murmurs behind his eyes and in amongst the thoughts cascading between his ears. He refuses to acknowledge the concern plaguing Hawke’s handsome features once he brings himself to look her in the eye. 

“I’ve tried to hold back,” he mutters, shame tightening its vice about his gullet. “You… saw what I almost did to that girl.” Suddenly the palms of his hands are a fascinating plane for his caramel eyes to rove. Anything but Hawke’s hurt look.

The pair are silent, the empty room compliments the atmosphere they share.

Anders opens his mouth to speak, but hesitation seizes him. 

“You’ve… seen what I am.” Justice, Vengeance.

Hawke watches the broken mage before her. Often she sees glimpses of who he was before he offered himself as a moral vessel for the spirit he once called _friend_. There was much laughter in his memories that surfaced between glances, a humour that shielded the hurt and fear and searing pain that ate at his soul. It hid the little boy once dragged from his mother’s skirts. Her brows knit together when he finds the strength to look at her once more.

“But I’m... still a man, Hawke,” comes the weathered confession as carefully laid bricks of fortification and refusal begin to waver. “You can’t tease me like this...” He swallows the thickness in his throat, the swell forming, choking him of his thoughts and his speech. “I can’t resist forever.”

It is in this moment that Hawke realises what is happening, what she’s witnessing. 

Before her stands a splintered being, divided between purpose and desire. Her eyes burned as she stood frozen, her mouth agape and her thoughts quivering. She’d never outright told him the affection she held, she understood he felt them too but he had made the decision time and time again through how he carried himself and spoke, that a companionship like that between them was not for him. It’s not what he wanted for her.

Releasing clenched fists, the woman hesitates. Words forming on her tongue die like a match in a gale. 

Does she now take up Justice’s shield and bar Anders from the feelings he can bear no longer? Is it now her role to recoil from his voice like he had hers, because in this moment of weakness, he himself cannot? 

What would hurt them more; to lie or truth?

Hawke’s nostrils flare as she draws a scorching breath; she flexes her fingers that hang by her sides, her gaze fixed before her. She pauses a moment before her meek voice is found once more. “I don’t want you to resist.”

She takes a step towards him, and his hand rises for a beat before falling back. They are consumed by shared disbelief.

Then every nerve in Anders’ tired body ignites with renewed purpose. Reaching for Hawke, he gasps with effort as his lips find the hot embrace hers in urgent greed. Endless dissent, demur, all swallowed up by his hands on her arms, her sides, her hair. He cups her flushed cheek as her neck cranes for him, and only him.

Hawke opens the floodgates of her passion and holds Anders’ stubbled face between her warm hands. She does not stop, nor does she wish to stop their long deprived kiss. The guilt bubbling in her stomach is pushed aside as her mind opens its senses and consumes selfishly, every touch and sensation. They have wanted this for too long.

When they part, it feels as if it were too soon. The scant distance is like a gaping hole between them. Breaths are short, and grasps unreleased. Hawke smooths circles over Ander’s growing caramel beard with her thumbs, a sweet caress that cannot hide the cold sensation returning to his lips.

He watches his hand, marvelling, as he embraces the curve of this woman’s waist. Anders feels the fleeting joy die as the absence of her form returns to his anxious being. 

“This will be a disaster,” he remarks with confidence. He drums a pattern with his fingertips. “But I can’t live without it.”

Hawke runs the ends of her fingers along his jaw as he speaks to her, idly listening, and ghosts them across his lonely lips. “We could die tomorrow. I don’t want it to be before I tell you how I feel.” 

Anders worries that she is not listening, and grabs her wandering curiosity by the wrist. He stares into her deeply. He is sincere and vulnerable, his heart still regaining composure.

“I’ve never felt this way,” Hawke whispers. She is scared. Terrified that the decision she made was the wrong one. 

“... About anyone,” she continues, determined to not back away, not shy away from that cannot be undone. It hurts her to imagine retracting from his warm touch.

Voice rasping, Anders’ speaks with tumultuous aching. “I thought with Justice,” disappointment and frustration, lingering feelings of the ever present spirit, trickle into the pool of his mind, “... I thought this part of me was over.” The comfort, the desire, the selfishness.

“I can’t give you a normal life, Hawke. If you’re with me, we’ll be hunted,” his fist balls against her waist,“hated.”Of course, she did not understand where these whispered promises grew from, no one could ever comprehend it but him and Justice alone. Anders would never be a simple apostate living cowered in fear, not with a spirit who demanded action and had means of taking it. 

“The world will be against us,” he breathes.

Hawke watches on in bated anticipation, frantic to hear where she stood now that the ultimate boundary of lucid touch had been broken and burned before her. They could not turn back, not now. Not ever.

“If your door is open tonight, I will come for you.” The promise brings a spark of fear and of hope. “If not,” Anders sighs, unsure of himself and hesitant, “I’ll know you took my warning at last.” He doesn’t know which he’d rather her take.

He was in two minds; to be with Hawke, or to protect her. These could not be shared; coexistence was impossible. He sees it in his dreams, it burns into his minds eye when he is awake. He will watch it; with his bare hands he would one day tear the skin from her body and bathe her in the salt of Justice’s vengeance. This is the only promise he can ever make. He will burn them to the ground, Hawke and he. 

He will be her demise, and he is powerless to deny her.

Like suddenly she was licked by Holy flames, Anders released Hawke and stepped back, the flesh of his hands engorged with an invisible burning that is not there. He dared one look at her before forcing himself to turn away without a word, head hung low.

Hawke knew she needed to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders' before he enters the estate.

Bile burns his throat once Anders sights the regal facade of Hawke’s estate as he rounds the street corner. It’s mid-evening, the sun has long set and suppers have been cleared from tables. The laneways of Hightown are bare save for the odd pair of patrolling guards who chatter amongst themselves and heed no attention to the apostate.

Maybe if he were lucky the Templars would descend upon him and remove him from this equation, he wonders with bitter apprehension. 

Since he opened the door to leave his clinic, Justice has been loud and restless. _Turn back now_ , the spirit demands, _you are giving in to your beastial needs; we are beyond this now_. A stinging haze tries to overwhelm Anders’ tired mind.

He loved her. Anders could not hide it from himself any longer. He’d known for some time, of course, but it was the admission that crushed his shoulders like a cascading wave in the violent oceans of storming Amaranthine. It was a cresting current of responsibilities and expectations. With his love came danger, not only from the tumultuous world surrounding but also from himself and the being harboured within his weary flesh. A being of conviction.

The woman is a distraction, she is a threat and her presence stoked the hot disgust Justice felt. The being watched through their shared eyes, felt the race of their heart; emotions coursing through living veins. This is what it felt to be alive, and what it felt to be without reign. It was infuriating to be imprisoned within this grounded vessel. Forever trapped not only in a realm Justice did not fully comprehend but to be further encased within this singular, seemingly insignificant individual who experienced so much with a tainted and scarred, but living soul. Curiosity is something Justice tried so hard to deny.

Anders stands rigid on the cobblestone step cast in shadow. If the hewn door before him is locked, they all will be saved. Hawke will have denied him, and he will be free of her he tells himself. He will find deliverance in the sickening rejection that Hawke will beseech unto him. For he is a man too weak and too spineless to control his words and his touch. He is a soul starved for too long.

The fine brass handle is cold under his clammy nervous grasp and does little to ground Anders’ swaying thoughts. 

The whispers of Justice ascend in a crescendo of discord and veto. They lick at his crumbling resolve, their acid lips kissing his festering doubts. They feed the infection that is becoming his mind. It is a waltz between stars blooming behind his eyes which he presses shut in agony. 

_You are greedy, you ask too much. You are deluding yourself._

_You are better; you are above this now. You will be our salvation. We will bring deliverance._

_You have renounced all earthly pleasures. This world can offer you nothing more._

_You cannot._

_Anders, you_ will _not._

The knob turns and with a gentle click of the latch releasing, Anders’ breath catches. The hope he had been trying so hard to ignore swells to life deep in his gut and his shoulders draw back in dirty pride. His hands begin to shake.

“But I am a selfish man afterall.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's preemptive POV.

Hawke is thankful that Bodahn does not verbalise his curiosity when she asks him to leave the door unlocked that evening. He is clearly unsure of why she’d want such a thing, but accepts nonetheless when she requests that if he hear the door open and shut at all, he wait before going and locking it. 

It all sounds very suspicious and secretive. He assumed it had to do with some of Hawke’s darker dealings. She associated with some seemingly unsavoury people, but that was all a part of the adventurer type. Bodahn had become well acquainted with that sort of thing whilst traveling with the Hero of Ferelden. Maybe it had to do with that “Mage Underground” business he’d heard mention of every now and then. She had always been sympathetic to them, especially after her sister was whisked away to the Circle. Hawke always took the utmost care of the remaining apostates in her charge.

It’s been a few hours since the household went to bed and Hawke is sitting in her favourite armchair by the hearth. She fingers the yellowed page of her leatherbound book and reads the same sentence over and over again. She does her best to focus on the old tale, but her head is drowning in an ocean of thoughts. Her intent gasps and desperately tries to crawl to the surface but the questions drag it under, screaming.

What had she done? Has she jeopardised her friendship with Anders by making her desire known? 

He certainly wasn’t opposed to it, he even kissed her. It was like a dying man frantically grasping for a floating log in a torrential river. It was eager and pained. His resolve had crumbled before her, and she did nothing to mend it. Hawke wasn’t sure whether she had done the right thing; allowing him to give into his want. He had taken lengths to ensure that their distance was respectful, that nothing but his hollow eyes lingered. Professionalism; it is what he seemingly strived for.

But this, what would be tonight, was not professional. Her sitting here waiting for him to enter her quarters any minute now was not something shared between two friends, not after what preceded. 

She wondered if she had taken advantage of him in that moment of vulnerability, when the facade he had placed so much time and care into preserving, had faltered. Should she have been strong for him, because he could not for that fraction of a second? Had she inadvertently broken something she should’ve held sacred?

Of course, Hawke did not know the answer to this. Nor did the unread book in her lap.

Propping her elbow on the arm of her chair and resting her chin upon her hand, she stares into the sparkling fire. 

It could simply be that this is what he wants, reasons aside. She wants this too after all, right? Hawke relishes in Anders’ company; his laughter and the gentle jokes that he would share. He was a guarded man, and she understood he was not well in many ways. 

It took a lot for him to trust her, she determines. Friendly, that is something he can do effortlessly, but trust, that was a difficult spell to master. Maybe when he came waltzing into her room with the strut she imagined, he’d weave some magical words that she didn’t realise she needed to hear that would explain everything in the world, and all her troubles would wash away.

But that brought upon itself it’s own troubles. What were his expectations of this evening? Hawke had an idea of it. She didn’t know any easy way to explain to him that she had never found the desire to intimately share herself with another soul. Gentle caresses and feather-soft kisses, yes, she yearned for that. But beyond it? What she had been told that made two people truly belong to one another; she could be that, but she could not feel that.

How do you explain that to a man who is closely acquainted to encounters of that nature. He has assuredly had his own share of tumbles between the sheets. Isabela had even said so herself from personal experience. The thought made her nervous.

As soon as the door’s echo reached her ears however, Hawke’s thoughts fell from her mind like a tonne of bricks. She slaps her book shut and slips it into the gap where it belongs on her shelf and stands in front of her hearth. She waits, listening for apprehensive footsteps that creep up the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that my Hawke is asexual, and does not engage in anything sexual in the concluding chapter of this fic. It follows the dialogue of the scene, edited in parts but for the majority it's the same, but there is included discussion on her orientation.

With practiced purposeful strides, Anders charges into the Hawke estate. The fire in the main foyer shines duly and guides him in from the front door -- which he was sure to lock behind himself. He wrings his aching hands, looking over his shoulder and about the room like a cat lured into a cage as he makes his way through the grand home. He swallows his dry tongue.

It’s late; there appears to be no one awake. Or at least not up and about. Good. Anders couldn’t bear to make anxious conversation with the prying eyes of Bodahn, or worse, Leandra. There is no way he would be able to call on his charm and jokes to talk his way out of explaining his reasons to be here.

He’s been to the homestead before, thankfully. So he knew his way around. He didn’t visit often. Typically he came by to make use of Hawke’s library and to borrow some more writing supplies which were never returned. He was sure he’d left some of his manifesto here on accident. He ought to reclaim those at some point. Maybe when he leaves here with his tail between his legs in ten minutes, he’ll stop to grab the one he’s sure he left in a copy of the outdated Tevinter atlas on the third shelf.

Anders reminds himself that he hasn’t been sent running quite yet. Hawke had said so herself that she was not repulsed by who or what he is, regardless of how tiring that must be. She had allowed him into her home as per their little deal. It was the thought of actually seeing her that made the sweat bead under his collar. And talk to her? His stomach full of butterflies didn’t want to contemplate that right now. He felt like an inexperience teen again.

He gripped the railing as if it were the throat of a Templar, and did his best to creep up the stairwell. Thankfully not a single board creaked under his minimal weight. When the mace on the end of his staff cracked against one of the pickets Anders let out a whimper and clamped a sweaty palm over his mouth. He stood motionless, waiting for his heart to slow.

Why was he so afraid of this? This was the woman he ached for in the night. The thought of her caress made his skin burn and his throat tighten. He wanted this. 

He was scared she didn’t. Justice had convinced him as much.

The door to Hawke’s quarters is wide open. He can see her shadow cast against the wall as he makes his way to her room. Anders takes a moment to stop and collect his flurry of thoughts. His moment of pause does not help, and instead fans the flames. Pulling the stave from his back, he grips the worn wood to ground himself. 

He is here. Hawke is just beyond him. He can do this.

Much like a bull, Anders charges into Hawke’s room and tries to find something to fixate his eyes on that isn’t her. He’s scared he’ll stare, and then he’ll stutter or do something else to make a fool of himself. He’ll embarrass himself and Hawke will realise how bad a decision this was and send him on his way.

Hawke does not turn her head until she hears the click of her door shutting. She stands squarely in front of her hearth, arms crossed. When she turns, she sees Ander’s carefully resting his staff against the wall. He strides in with purpose lacing every step. Hawke does not notice his hesitation.

Her teeth glint in the firelight when she smiles. “You’re here!” She takes a step back and plucks a single mabari hair from her fine shirt. “I… wasn’t sure you’d come,” she admits in an aside.

There is a smirk on his face when Anders stops once he passes the threshold. “Justice does not approve of my obsession with you.” Looking to the fire, he matches Hawke’s tone. “He thinks you’re a distraction.” The admission stings him more than it does her.

They stand and silently watch each other with only the rooms ambience to converse in their stead. It is Anders who steps forward, making his way closer to Hawke. His tongue is dry when he tries to swallow. “It is one of the few things on which the spirit and I disagree.”

“If you hadn’t come…” Hawke brings a calloused hand up to scratch her neck, “I’d be out looking for you.” She had spent a good part of her waiting tonight, worrying whether or not he had been plucked away by the Templars on his way here -- if he had even thought to come at all.

Anders’ warm eyes grow dark when he turns his gaze to the hearth. He is solemn while he watches the flames, and an image of Karl reveals itself in the glowing embers. “When I was in the Circle, love was only a game.” Memories of his first pull at the broken strings of his heart. 

He remembers witnessing one of the Templars pulling away one of his friends; she had kissed the woman she called her “true heart”. He didn’t see either of them for three days after that. They tried to hide the cuts and bruises when they were returned to their caged home in the Circle, but never again did they look at one another.

Under Hawke’s watchful gaze, he steps forward to bridge the rift between them. He flexes his fingers and reaches for hers but stops. “It gave the Templars too much power if there was something you couldn’t stand to lose,” he mumbles. 

His eyes burn when he rocks his weight back on his heels and can’t bring himself to look up from the floor; not while these tears of painful memories sting him. His breath wavers.

“It would kill me to lose you.” Anders’ throat seizes him; the emotion grasping at his lungs. It is a relief to say it aloud, but with it bears a new heavy burden promptly placed atop his shoulders. The weight of his words become further realised when he feels the warmth of Hawke’s hands around his.

Standing close to him now, she cups his tired hands between hers and runs her fingers up and down his wrist. Hawke sees how much this pains him. She does not comment on his watery eyes and instead offers her silent company as comfort. He is still beautiful to her, no matter how happy nor sad.

Hawke is patient. She stands with Anders peacefully while he composes himself. She watches him, notes the sweet scent of elfroot on him. She does not rush him.

Anders pulls his hand free from Hawke’s grasp and shyly laces their fingers together with the other. He continues to slouch and bore holes into the floor, but relishes in her touch and allows himself to feel comforted.

When he is ready to look at her once more, his breath hitches upon realising how close she is to him. How handsome she is. Anders hesitates when he brings his hand to cup her cheek, and his nerves burn. “No mage I know has dared to fall in love.” He gently caresses her warm skin and takes in the sensation. He will never forget this. 

As he leans in to kiss her, Anders whispers his promise: “This is the rule I will most cherish breaking.” 

It is a loving gesture, one that stirs a blush in Hawke. His lips are dry but soft, and his breath is hot against her own. She unknots their wound fingers and blindly brings them up to his arms, then his shoulders. Her knees feel weak when her chest bumps his. It is too soon when they break the kiss, and Ander’s feels a shudder of fear creep up his spine.

Hawke’s smile calms his stormy mind, and she leads him to her grand bed. She steps back holding his hand as if he were an elegant maiden who graced her court. She readily admits that he is the most gorgeous who has ever been so close to her heart.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Hawke shuffles back to lay on her crimson covers. A surge of pride takes her when she watches the corners of his eyes crinkle with his grin. He is careful when he kneels on the mattress, and places a steadying arm above Hawke’s head mindful of her hair. They giggle quietly as Hawke wraps her arms about his neck. She stares up at him.

“Before we go on, Anders, I need to tell you something.” She cringes when his brows knit together in a pained frown. Hawke plays with a lock of his hair and rolls her words in her mouth thoughtfully before she speaks again.

“I hope I’m not dashing your expectations when I say this,” Hawke announces with forced bravery; truth be told, she’s scared shitless that he will up and leave. “I will not be having sex with you tonight.”

There is confusion when he opens his mouth, however he does not speak and takes a moment to rethink. Anders will admit he is… disappointed. But this is Hawke’s decision, and if she isn’t ready for that then that is not something for him to be bitter about. She is important to him.

“If you’re not ready, I understand.” He had wanted to show how much he loved her tonight with intimacy and touch. He at least trusted himself to do that much for her.

“I need you to know that it’s not a matter of “being ready”, but I may never want to,” Hawke idly thumbs his lower lip. “Anders, I’m sorry. I know this is what you had wanted.” She feels ashamed. She waits for his unspoken “but why?”.

She runs the back of her fingers gingerly across his cheek; his stubble tickles her skin. “I’ve never felt and I don’t know if I’ll ever feel anything sexual towards anyone. Intimacy and touch I crave, but, not that. It’s not that I don’t find you attractive -- I think you are beautiful. It is how I am.”

Hawke continues to trace patterns along his cheek and jaw while he watches and listens. “Maybe one day I will want to, but not tonight.” She steels herself for rejection.

“I will be honest, Hawke, I had hope we would sleep together tonight, but this won’t change how I feel for you.” Anders kisses her kindly. “You still have my love.”


End file.
